Foul Fortune
by Little.Miss.Xanda
Summary: Sometimes, he wondered at his luck. He was alive, though he had no doubt that all his friends and family thought him dead. He was a Gryffindor, though, and he wouldn't give up. He would go back to them, no matter what.


**Disclaimer**: Anything you recognize belongs to the incomparable J. K. Rowling. No money is being made from this.

**Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition – Season Seven – Round Ten**

**Captain for the Tutshill Tornados**

**Round 10**

**Kill Them or Save Them**

* * *

Below you will find eight characters. Half died during the war, and the other half survived. For this round, you will choose a character and reverse their fate. So, if a character died in canon, you will write a story where they survive the war. If they lived, you will write about their death during the war. Whether you focus on the moment that changed whether they lived or died, or you show the impact, the aftermath of their fate through someone else's eyes, or whatever is entirely up to you.

**Note**: Each character can only be chosen once per team. No double claims among teammates. (So the captain and Beater can't both write about Colin living)

**Kill Them**: Hermione Granger, Pansy Parkinson, Lucius Malfoy, Neville Longbottom

**Save Them**: Colin Creevey, Amelia Bones, Regulus Black, Bellatrix Lestrange

**Captain**: Save Colin Creevey  
**Word count**: 2990

(In Ancient Greek, ἑρπετόν (pronounced "herpeton") means "creeping animal".)

* * *

**Foul Fortune**

It was agony unlike anything he had ever experienced—considering he had spent the last months under the tender care of the Carrow siblings, that was saying something.

He screamed and tried to crawl away, but the deranged witch just cackled and threw another curse at him.

"Does it hurt, itty bitty Mudblood?" She crouched in front of him, digging her wand into the wound in his stomach.

Colin grunted and tried to curl in on himself, but she wouldn't let him.

"Beg," she told him, "and Bella will make it quick even if it's not painless."

Colin gnashed his teeth and struggled to get upright. He caught sight of the battle around him, bright flashes lightening up the night in a colorful array; however, what held his attention were the bodies strewn across Hogwarts grounds. His hand shook, and he fisted it in the mud, tearing clumps of red-stained grass—his blood, he realized with detached fascination.

Bellatrix dug her wand in deeper, and Colin screamed.

He lost what little strength he had managed to amass and flopped backwards. He panted, his breathing ragged and strained to his ears even over the cacophony of the battle around them.

"Beg." Her blood-stained grin pulled at her gaunt skin.

Colin gasped and wrapped a trembling hand around the wand lodged in his gut. Calling every inch of courage he had in him, he matched her grin. "Go to hell!"

She snarled, and Colin prayed that his little brother would forgive him.

* * *

Death was far noisier than Colin had expected. Not that he spent a lot of time thinking about death, but it was sort of inevitable when he was running off into battle.

So… death—not what he was expecting so far.

Especially the prodding.

He hadn't expected there to be any sort of prodding involved.

"Hermph."

The prodding stopped, and Colin realized that the strange grunting sound had come from him. God, his throat hurt. Everything hurt. Wasn't death meant to bring an end to pain?

He struggled to open his eyes, and when he did, he curled in on himself as the evil light nearly blinded him. Suddenly, strong hands were pulling at his face, tilting it up, and some liquid was dribbled into his mouth.

It took him a moment to identify the substance as fresh, clean water. He swallowed—the water doing wonders for his burning throat.

Carefully, he tried opening his eyes once more. Though the light was less bright, it itched, but at least it didn't make him feel as if his eyes were burning in his skull.

When he was able to take in a few details of his surroundings, he frowned. He didn't recognize anyone around him, or the room he was in. When he was aware enough to notice that the man in front of him was speaking, his frown deepened. He couldn't understand a word the man was saying.

"I..." he croaked, and a cup of water was shoved under his nose. He took a few sips, swallowing carefully. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I don't understand you." It was raspy and made his throat itch, but at least he could form words.

The man in front of him frowned, then said something in another language. Colin shook his head, and the man said something in yet another language with the same result.

"English?" Colin asked and the man looked as confused as Colin felt.

He groaned, closing his eyes and rubbing at his face with his hands. He was fairly sure he wasn't dead, but that in no way helped him in figuring out where he was and how he had ended up here.

* * *

Apparently, healers made themselves understood even if they didn't speak the same language. He was to remain in bed until he was better. He wasn't complaining. He felt horrible and knew that he was in no condition to venture off and find a way to contact someone in the wizarding world. And yet, he was worried sick about everyone at Hogwarts. Things hadn't been looking good when he had come across Lestrange and she decided that he would be a fun target.

He needed to contact them. He needed to let his little brother know that he was fine.

As such, he was sneaking off. However, the further he got from his room, the more uneasy he felt. He couldn't place his finger on it, but things felt _off_.

He froze when he reached outside, looking around wide-eyed.

"We're not in Kansas anymore…" he whispered.

He never even noticed a healer rushing towards him as his legs gave up and everything turned black.

* * *

Greece.

Ancient Greece to be precise.

What had Lestrange done to him? Colin buried his head in his hands and muffled his groan in his knees. He took deep, shuddering breaths. He might as well be dead to everyone back at Hogwarts.

No! He shook his head, straightening up. He was a Gryffindor. He wouldn't give up—_couldn't _give up. He would find a way back to his friends, to his little brother.

First, though, he needed to solve the language barrier.

* * *

Colin thanked his lucky stars that he and Ginny had always been something of rule breakers. Not that they went around causing mischief—that had always been the twins' area of expertise. However, he had taken to exploring the castle during his first year in an effort to take as many pictures as he could to send back home. After their first year, Ginny had started joining him—he hadn't asked, but he suspected that it had helped her deal with the nightmares she'd had after the whole Chamber thing.

Well, during one of those nights, they had stumbled upon an unused room. It had been filled with bookshelves and a few sofas and armchairs. They had deduced that someone must have found the room and used it as a study room, and over the years when people found it, they would add to it.

They had done the same; however, it was the books they found there that truly gave the room value. There were hundreds of books that they had never even heard off. They had tried a few spells from some and downright avoided others.

Though during their third year, when they had learned that there would be foreign students around, they had been excited to try a small ritual they had found. It would enable them to understand foreign languages.

That plan had been scrapped when the other students turned out to speak English. Still, Colin hadn't forgotten what needed to be done.

He glanced around once more, just to make sure that no healer came running just because he had sneaked out of his room, and scratched the last rune into place. Carefully, he placed a hair he had gotten from his regular healer in the center of the runic circle inside a small bowl then added three drops of his blood—Ginny had been reluctant to perform the ritual because of this, even though Colin had never understood why.

Blood magic, Ginny had said, was illegal and dark. Colin didn't understand how learning another language could be seen as dark; it wasn't like they were killing anyone to get this done or anything of the sort. Sometimes, it felt as if wizards got caught up in the semantics of light and dark instead of the actual magic.

He shook his head; now wasn't the time to go into that. He needed to learn the damned language so that he could go home.

He took a deep breath and murmured the incantation.

The magic surged around him, and then, there was a flash and a bang, and he was thrown backward against a wall.

_Not again_, he thought as the world went dark around him.

* * *

"_Stupid, sleeping on cold stone. Warm stone is much better. Stupid_."

Colin's eyes snapped open. He understood that! The first words he'd understood since Lestrange had somehow thrown him back in time.

He looked around, trying to see who was around. The voice wasn't one he was familiar with. He frowned, seeing no one.

"_He's awake. Maybe he'll go look for a warm stone now. There are lots of those in the garden_. _Sun, sun, sun, warm, warm, warm_." The voice sing-songed, and Colin caught movement by his leg.

He gaped as the small snake slithered back and forth, as it continued to sing-song about the sun.

"_You can speak_!" he squeaked, pointing at the tiny animal.

The snake froze. Then, slowly, it raised its head and looked at him. "_You speak_!" it said, looking as shocked as a snake could.

Colin slammed a hand against his mouth, eyes wide.

"_I can?_" he muttered against his palm.

The snake nodded. "_You can_."

Colin's gaze snapped to the runic circle. Some of the runes were slightly smudged… as if something had slithered right over them.

He turned to glare at the snake. "_This is your fault_!"

"_Mine_?" Until that moment Colin hadn't known that snakes could look indignant. "_How rude! See if I tell you about warm stones now!_" The snake huffed, and slithered away, muttering under its breath about rude two-leggers and not saving them a warm, cozy stone even if they spoke their noble language.

"What happened here!" a healer asked, looking around the slightly singed room wide-eyed. Colin slumped against the wall.

Well, at least he could understand them now—even if he wasn't looking forward to the lecture that was sure to follow.

* * *

"_What are those? They're big. Can I eat them_?"

Colin glanced at the small snake. He smiled at him. Who would have thought that he would have befriended the very same snake that had inadvertently gifted him with Parseltongue? When he got back to his own time, he would have to ask Harry if all snakes were as mouthy as him.

"_They're chicken eggs. And no, Herpo, you can't eat them_."

"_That's not my name_," Herpo grumbled, curling into a ball.

Colin raised an eyebrow. "_It's what they called you_."

"_No!_" Herpo reared up, tiny tongue flickering out. "_They were calling you that!_" It lunged forward to snap at him, stopping just shy of his nose. "_You're Herpo_!"

Colin's lips twitched. "_I'm a creeping animal_?"

Herpo grumbled, and curled back up, clearly done with him for the day. Colin chuckled and went back to his eggs. It was a risky plan, but he needed to do something. Castor, the main healer that had watched over him when he had popped up in the past, didn't want to worry him, but Colin wasn't blind nor deaf. He had heard the murmurs from the other healers, of battle and destruction and death.

Healers were valuable and sought after. Their willingness wasn't taken into account. They cooperated or were killed.

Colin fisted his hand on the soft robe Castor had given him.

He had to do something to protect them. They had looked after him without demanding anything in return. The least he could do was try his best to protect them. However, he was realistic. He wasn't that powerful nor did he know any extraordinary magic. He did, however, know how to speak to snakes now.

And was there any better defender than a basilisk?

* * *

"Herpo?"

Colin glanced up, his lips twitching. Castor had taken to calling him that after he had walked in on Herpo throwing yet another snit and Colin had explained. He didn't mind, if he was being honest. Though he wasn't willing to completely give up Colin.

Until he found a way to go back to his own time, it was the only thing he had from before.

"Everything alright?" he asked, closing the book he had been reading.

Castor frowned, taking a seat beside him. He reached over, opening the book Colin had been reading. He read a couple pages, before closing it again.

"You will burn yourself out," Castor said. "It's been two years, Herpo. You still believe you'll find a way back?"

Only Castor knew the truth about him, and only because a year or so back Colin had gotten drunk out of his mind and spilled everything—the frustration, anger, and desperation taking a toll on him.

Castor had not only believed him, but promised to help in any way he could. Unfortunately, even with Castor's vast magical knowledge, they were no closer to finding a way to send him back home.

"I can't give up," Colin said. "My friends, my family. They're all there. I need to know they're okay. That the war ended and the Dark Lord is dead. I… I have to keep trying."

Castor sighed, closing his eyes. He gripped Colin's shoulder and squeezed. "You have family here, too," he said. "You can come to us any time."

Colin smiled—nowhere near as brilliant as it used to be. "Thanks."

* * *

"_Castor wouldn't approve_," Herpo told him.

Colin snorted. "_Well, he's dead, so it hardly matters what he would or wouldn't approve_."

Herpo slumped and then started crawling up his arm and curled around his neck. "_He wouldn't want you to hurt yourself. Nor do I._"

Colin shook his head. He slammed his hands against his work bench then froze. He took several ragged breaths, trying to calm his racing heart.

"Arrghhh!" he screamed, throwing the book against the wall where it collided with a satisfying bang. "He's dead," he whispered, stumbling back and flopping to the floor. "_He's dead_."

A small tongue darted out and licked at his tears. "_I know_," Herpo murmured, "_but you're not alone._" Colin couldn't find it in himself to believe him.

* * *

His hands shook as he picked up the book he had thrown against the wall a couple weeks before. He hadn't touched it since that day.

He knew Herpo had been right: Castor would never have approved.

Castor was gone now, though. His wife and children, too. Killed, all of them. They had killed the basilisk he had created to protect the small family that had welcomed him with open arms and then barged into their home and killed them all.

Colin closed his eyes, trying to erase the images from his mind.

He opened his eyes, his hands once more steady. This was the only way he could see to find a way back home, and Castor wasn't around to tell him it was a bad idea.

Even if it was, he didn't care anymore. It had been over ten years since that night at Hogwarts. Did his little brother even remember him anymore? Had Harry won? Had Voldemort?

He needed to know.

He needed to go home.

He needed…

He dropped his head against the book. It was worth it, right?

"You'll forgive me, won't you, Castor?" he murmured against the cover. "You understand, right?" He stood back up. "One way or another, I need to go back."

He put the book back on the table, and opened it on the right section. _A soul is an intangible mass of energy. It is everlasting. Immortal, even if its vessel is not._

Immortality…

Colin had never even dreamt of it. It had never been something he desired. However, if he was immortal, he wouldn't need to find a way to go back to his own time—he would just need to wait and catch up.

* * *

The scream echoed around him, and Colin doubled in on himself in agony. He cried and begged for forgiveness as he held Herpo's tiny broken body close to his chest.

At his feet, oozing a dark miasma so thick it made him sick to his stomach, was a shiny golden cup.

* * *

He went by Herpo now—Colin had no place in his life anymore, at least not until he was back in his time.

Until then, he would use Herpo to honor the best friend he had lost to his own desire. He sneered—some Gryffindor he was.

He shook his head, no. He couldn't think about that now. He needed to focus on the ritual. His body was straining. Whatever Lestrange had done to him had never truly healed, and he could feel his body failing.

Sure, he had the Horcrux now, but…what if no one brought him back? No, he couldn't risk that. He needed to make his body more durable.

This ritual… it would work. It had to. It would render his body invulnerable to most things. He would live, and he would see Dennis again and his mom and dad and Ginny and everyone. He would tell them of Castor and the family that took him in and loved him.

He would tell them of Herpo… his dear friend that he had so callously killed so that he could see all of them again.

_Was it worth it?_

Herpo shook his head, now wasn't the time. He went over the ritual again, making sure everything was in place, every rune traced with care.

He switched his clothes for a black formal robe used in rituals. He walked towards the center of the runic circle and knelt. He took a deep breath; then carefully, he carved the two runes in his chest—ansuz and laguz, vitality and potentiality.

Herpo grunted, even if part of him felt as if he deserved this pain. He dropped the dagger when he was finished, then started the chant.

He knew something was wrong as soon as the first verse was done—he couldn't stop, however. The magic of the ritual demanded it of him.

Herpo screamed as soon as the last verse left his lips. Then darkness took him.

* * *

He was aware.

He hungered.

His soul wasn't whole.

He needed to quench the agonizing pain.

He floated from the cave he had secluded himself in, spreading despair in his wake.


End file.
